You Bastard

“Oh, Lord God, what in heaven’s name is that?" I think, my breath hitchin’ as my eyes stretch wide, my body writhin’ against the ropes cuttin’ into my wrists. The more I pull, the deeper they dig, burnin’ my skin raw. The Father’s voice bellows through the trees, deep and guttural, like the earth itself is rumblin’ with him. The robed men and women sway in unison, their glossy eyes rollin’ back, their lips partin’ in eerie harmony as their voices rise—one voice, one will, one madness.

Above me, the portal churns, black as a storm-wracked sea, but within it—eyes. A thousand of ‘em. More. All shiftin’, dartin’, blinkin’ at me like they see straight into my soul. My stomach twists, bile burnin’ up my throat, and I try again to wiggle free, but it’s useless. My nails claw into the dirt, scrabblin’ like I could burrow into the earth itself, but the ground won’t take me.

“Daddy, no—please!” My voice cracks, raw with terror, as I twist my head toward the man standin’ at the altar. The man who used to lift me onto his shoulders, who used to hum hymns as he rocked me to sleep. But that man ain’t here no more. His lips move, chantin’ words that make my ears ring, that make the air feel thick like honey, suffocatin’. His eyes—Lord, his eyes—ain’t even on me. They’re locked on the thing above, the thing with too many eyes, too many mouths whisperin’ in a voice older than the world.

And then—I feel it. A shadow stretchin’ down from the portal, cold as the grave, touchin’ my skin like a lover’s caress. And somethin’ inside me starts to change.

The air is thick with the smell of damp earth and decay, the cold bite of the night seeping into my skin like a sickness. The trees around us loom tall, their twisted limbs swayin’ unnaturally, as if they too whisper prayers to the thing above me. Shadows stretch long across the forest floor, dancin’ like they got minds of their own beneath the flickerin’ torchlight.

Then the tendrils come—slow, patient, deliberate. They slither down from the gaping maw of darkness above, movin’ like ink spilled in water, thick and unnatural. They brush against my skin, slick and cold, leavin’ behind a foul, black residue that clings to me, seepin’ into my pores like the filth of a stagnant swamp. The stench of rot curls in my nose—somethin’ dead but still breathin’.

A shudder wracks my body as the tendrils tighten, windin’ ‘round my arms, my legs, my throat. I thrash, but the ropes keep me bound, diggin’ into my wrists, raw and burnin’. The thing lifts me slow, pullin’ me upward, and my stomach drops like I’m bein’ carried into the mouth of some great and terrible beast.

A tear slips free, tremblin’ down my cheek—only for a tendril to catch it, absorbin’ it like it was never there at all. My breath hitches. A pitiful, strangled whimper slips from my lips.

"Please… no," I whisper, my voice barely holdin’ shape.

But the dark don’t care. It takes more. My tears vanish, one by one, sucked away into the endless void above me. My mind feels fogged, heavy—like it’s not my own no more, like somethin’ else is crawlin’ in, wrappin’ around my thoughts, whisperin’ in a tongue I cain’t understand.

This is how I die. Not in a bed, not with my hand held by someone who loves me, but here—given up like an offering to somethin’ that ain’t got no name. All for the twisted desires of a man who done lost his way, who done forgot what it meant to be human, to be family.

A shiver runs through me, but I let my head fall, my eyes driftin’ shut. Ain’t no point fightin’ no more. The dark has already won.

A wet, putrid breath washes over me, thick and clingin’ like swamp fog. Then—CRACK.

The sound splits the night like the heavens themselves have torn open. A terrible, gut-wrenchin’ noise follows, somethin’ between a screech and a roar, rattlin’ my bones ‘til I feel like they gonna shake loose inside me. I hit the ground hard, knocked loose from whatever held me, my body slick with the creature’s foul sludge. The stench is unbearable—rot and bile and somethin’ worse, somethin’ unnatural. The black muck spatters across the camp, hissin’ as it touches the firelight, steam risin’ where it lands. The thing shrinks back, retreatin’ into the yawning void above, its writhin’ tendrils slippin’ away like shadows slinkin’ back where they belong.

Then I hear it.

Boots crunchin’ over gravel, fast and desperate. A figure moves through the torchlight, his face cast in flickerin’ orange glow—Henry. His chest is heavin’, smoke curlin’ from the barrel of his revolver, his eyes wide, wild with fear. He ain’t lowerin’ the gun, not even a little. His hands shake as he swings the barrel ‘tween the cultists, my father, and the thing still lurkin’ in that cursed portal above.

I lift my eyes to him, dazed, barely comprehending. He drops to a knee beside me but don’t let his guard down, his breath comin’ fast. “You alright?” His voice is tight, low, edged with somethin’ raw. He don’t wait for an answer—just hooks an arm ‘round me, haulin’ me up, steadyin’ me even as my legs drag useless against the ground.

The cultists stare, their eerie, glassy eyes trackin’ our every move, silent, waitin’. One of ‘em, slow to react, twitches for somethin’—a knife, maybe. Henry don’t give him the chance.

BANG.

The shot rings out, echoes off the trees. The man crumples, his body hittin’ the dirt with a lifeless thud. The others don’t flinch. Just keep watchin’ with that same awful, empty look.
Henry tightens his grip, his voice sharp with urgency. “Back,” he barks, his gun still raised, his finger twitchin’ near the trigger. “Get back, damn you!”

The cultists shift, murmur low and guttural. The air thickens. My breath catches. The portal above shudders, the darkness churnin’ like somethin’ is still waitin’, still watchin’.
Henry drags me backward, my heels scraping through the gravel. The torches flicker. Shadows stretch and twist. And somewhere, from deep within that writhin’ blackness, somethin’ stirs.
“Good boy, can you not see?” Father’s voice slithers through the air, smooth as oil, thick with reverence. “This—this is greatness before you.”

He steps down the stone altar, slow, deliberate, each footfall echoing like the ticking of some dreadful clock. The torchlight flickers against his silhouette, stretchin’ his shadow long and jagged across the ground. Behind him, the cultists sway in unholy unison, their glossy eyes locked on us, their lips still murmur’in that twisted, guttural hymn. And above them, hoverin’ just at his back, the thing from the void lingers—driftin’ like it ain't bound by this world at all, its tendrils curlin’ in the air like breathin’ smoke.

Then—BANG.

The gunshot explodes through the night, a searin’ crack that sends a fresh wave of ringin’ through my ears. I flinch, my whole body tightenin’ as the acrid smell of gunpowder floods my nose. A body crumples—a cultist behind Father, his robes soakin’ dark as he slumps to the dirt. But Father? He don’t even flinch. Not a twitch, not a damn blink.

Was that bullet meant for him?

Henry pulls me back, his arm a shield between me and that thing wearin’ my father’s face. We’re movin’ slow, backin’ up, but it don’t matter. The cultists press in, slippin’ from the shadows like specters, their silent steps crunchin’ over the damp gravel. Even if we ran, the bog would take us, the thick, black muck draggin’ us down like greedy hands.

“You are denyin’ God, my boy,” Father breathes, his voice deep, sickenin’ sweet, like honey left to rot. His arms spread wide, beckonin’ Henry into his embrace, as if offerin’ somethin’ warm, somethin’ kind. “We must do this. Don’t you see? Henry, my boy—this is our key. A better tomorrow, for our people... for all people.”

The way he says it chills me to the marrow. Ain’t no love in his voice, no kindness in that open-armed welcome. Only hunger. Only madness.

And behind him, the void shifts. The thing watches.

Waitin’.

For the love of all that’s good in this godforsaken world, I didn’t wanna die.

The air was thick with the stink of damp earth and burnin’ wood, the torches castin’ long, stretchin’ shadows that twisted like they were alive. Heavy footfalls pounded against the wet ground—fast, urgent. I snapped my head ‘round, just in time to see him. A bearded cultist, wild-eyed, his lips movin’ in some fevered whisper. The firelight gleamed off the rusted knife he clutched, raised high, aimed straight for us.

“HENRY!” My voice cracked, desperate, as I spun just as Henry’s gun went off. The blast ripped through the night, the sharp crack of it ringin’ in my ears. The cultist staggered back, a hollow gasp spillin’ from his lips before he crumpled, the knife fallin’ from his grasp. It hit the dirt with a dull thunk, half-buried in the mud.

I didn’t think—I couldn’t. My body moved on its own, legs pushin’ me forward as I snatched up the blade. It was heavier than I expected, the weight of it settlin’ in my hand like a stone. My breath came in ragged gasps, heart hammerin’ as I rushed back to Henry’s side. I raised the knife, holdin’ it out with both hands, my arms tremblin’ from the strain.

The cultists slowed.

They didn’t charge. Didn’t scream. Just watched. Their wide, glassy eyes reflected the flickerin’ flames, their bodies swayin’ like reeds in the wind. The air was wrong, thick and heavy, hummin’ with somethin’ unseen. My skin prickled, my stomach twistin’ up into knots.

Then, from the sea of blank faces, a voice rose.

“Henry, this is happenin’ for the good of all. Please, don’t deny my daughter her destiny.”

I stiffened. The voice was calm, coaxin', like a father soothin’ a child. But there was somethin’ else beneath it, somethin’ dark, pullin’.

I felt it in my bones.

A wrongness.

A fate I didn’t wanna know.

I froze mid-step, Henry pressin’ into me, his breath ragged against my ear. Destiny. The word curled around my mind, clingin’ like swamp mist. Like my fate had already been sealed, like I was nuthin’ more than a lamb led straight to slaughter. My stomach churned, a sick, cold dread sinkin’ deep into my bones.

I peered around Henry’s back, my eyes lockin’ onto my father’s. The firelight flickered over his face, his features twisted in devotion, in certainty. Like he truly believed this—like givin’ me up to that thing was righteous.

Somethin’ inside me snapped.

With all the hatred boilin’ in my gut, I spat at him, sendin’ a thick wad of spit through the humid air. I hoped it hit him, hoped it stung.

“You bastard!” I screamed, my throat raw as I lunged for Henry’s revolver. My fingers fumbled ‘round the grip, heavy and slick with sweat, my hands shakin’ as I wrestled up the strength to raise it. I narrowed my aim, squintin’ against the stingin’ wind. The shot rang out like a clap of thunder. The gun kicked back hard, sendin’ pain joltin’ through my wrist. My aim was off—I only clipped his leg. My father’s body buckled, his robe flutterin’ as he crumpled to the damp ground. The cultists swarmed him like a nest of stirred hornets, their voices a low, unholy murmur.

I fired again. And again. Another cultist fell. But when I squeezed the trigger a third time—click. Empty. My breath hitched.The torches cast wild shadows as the cultists charged. Their feet pounded against the bog, voices risin’ in a chorus of shrieks and furious howls.

“Run!”

Henry’s grip clamped around my wrist, yankin’ me forward. My feet stumbled over the uneven dirt road before findin’ their rhythm, carryin’ me into a full sprint. The darkness of the bog swallowed us whole, tree limbs clawin’ at my arms, mud suckin’ at my heels. Behind us, a wicked, inhuman sound rose through the night—deep and guttural, a noise that scraped against my very soul. I didn’t dare look back. We ran, deeper and deeper into the black.